As Long as it Takes
by Larkawolfgirl
Summary: This time has lasted longer than the rest. Things are peaceful and you live each day blissfully, but that sickening burning in the pit of your stomach refuses to leave, telling you that it won't last; they never do.


This time has lasted longer than the rest. Things are peaceful and you live each day blissfully, but that sickening burning in the pit of your stomach refuses to leave, telling you that it won't last; they never do. But maybe that is okay, because what matters right now is the feel of her sweet skin pressed against you, the cooing noises she makes, the promises that you know won't be fulfilled but are genuine.

You've always focused on saving her, but deep down you know that it was really your way of saving yourself, because you know that you could never live in a world devoid of her. She is your sun, a sun so blinding that you can't see anything else. So, maybe it is okay to live from life to life, as long as she is there. Maybe it is okay to merely preserve her. That way she will last forever, written in your mind if no one else's. You remember each of her—as if you could ever forget—and each is more precious than the last. The one you hold now, the most precious of all if only because the heart grows fonder with time.

It doesn't matter to you how life unfolds as long as she is there with you. Sometimes you confess, sometimes you don't. Sometimes she confesses, tinted cheeks and twitching fingers, nervous laugh. Those times are your favorite, because they remind you what your greatest desire is: her love. That is the greatest gift you could ever be given. And she loves you most lives, but in those where you confess doubt's fingers always creep their way in. You know how kind she is—one of the many reasons you love her—and worry whispers that maybe she is just that: being nice. But you push the thoughts aside—because that's all you can do—and love her regardless, with body and soul.

This life has held many firsts. You built a life together. One away from fighting—she's more understanding this time around—full of mundanities. You've been given more than ever: sweet laughs when your arms wrap around her back as she cooks, late night kisses as she reminds you in many ways how much you mean to her—you always assure her that she means more to you, though you know that she can never understand just how much—intimate conversations where you learn more about her than you'd ever known before, photos that can't be taken with you when you undoubtedly leave, but will last infinitely in your mind.

You haven't told her about your time skips. You have only done so a few times, after all, and this time is so special that you couldn't bear the thought of poison slipping in, you purse your lips each time you feel the urge, just nodding and feigning a smile. She doesn't press.

Then the day comes. You can feel it in your bones, like lead weighing you down. You reach for her, pull her to you, as she tries to get out of bed, mumbling about work and late penalties. You ignore her, holding tightly, pleading with a shudder to stay here all day. She laughs, pats your head, calls you silly. Work before play, she insists. You try to warn her, to make her understand, but you haven't told her about the time travels, so she doesn't. Helpless you watch her leave.

If only you knew when, how, but you don't, and the apprehension drives you crazy. You follow her, out of eyesight, but it is difficult as continuous trauma sets in. You watch her die a million times before your eyes, feel the residual pain grip your heart, and audibly a cry passes your lips. You thought you'd been ready, but you aren't, and your heart can't take it. You berate yourself for this weakness. Nothing has even happened yet, and you know this weakness only increases your chances of losing, so you force yourself to stand, force ripples into the images allowing reality to shine through.

There she is, standing, smiling at a customer. Her waitress uniform is rose pink with red patches. She says something, and the customer scowls, his fist clenches. Next, you can tell she is apologizing, but the man stands, skidding his chair back loud enough for you to hear. The feeling in your stomach spikes, acid burning away at you. You run. You must get there before the man— Before the man—

But you are too late the knife has already punctured her stomach marking the pink apron with more red. She smiles at you as you approach, lost for words. She whispers your names, swears you everything will be alright—an ambulance is on its way—and you feign a smile back, tell her you believe her. You cradle her to you, silent tears fall, which she wipes away with a soft, Silly didn't I say I was going to be okay? You clench her hand, kiss her ignoring the many prying eyes. She shakes, and you can literally feel her dying breath seep into you. Your body rakes with convulsions. A stranger touches your shoulder, but you shake it off, shouting to the sky, cursing whatever gods are listening.

You have always left immediately, unable to live a moment without her there, but this time it feels wrong. She deserves a burial, you tell yourself, and so, you give her one. You laugh bitterly as you stare at the humble headstone. All these lives you have fought against witches, aliens, been ready to fight all the demons in hell if need be, yet here you are: grieving over a death caused by a knife wound. It was so simple, so commonplace, just like this life. Is this the punishment for the peacefulness they had been given? Since there had been no fighting it couldn't have been the cause. It was as if fate were kicking you in the gut. Her demise is inevitable no matter what you do.

The very fabric of reality was set against you, so why not turn on that reality? Why not write your own? You don't know how, but it becomes your mission. There is a world for the two of you, and no matter how long it takes to discover it, you will. You have all the time in the world, after all. And in the meantime you will preserve her, etch her into a beautiful statue, so that if you happen to fail one day, at least she will live on.


End file.
